


Wednesdays at Five

by asuralucier



Category: Political Animals
Genre: Cool Anne, Cool Uncle T. J., Fluff Fic, Gen, Healthy T. J., T. J. and Anne are friends, kidfic kind of, mimosas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: While Douglas is out campaigning to be Vice President of the United States, T. J. visits Anne at home. (Set about five years after the series.)





	Wednesdays at Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluflamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/gifts).



> I absolutely adore the idea of T. J. and Anne being friends, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to @Karios for being an insightful structural reader!

“Mimosa?” Before T. J. can even ring the bell, Anne greets him with a hug and a kiss to the cheek and doesn’t waste any time shoving a glass in his hand as he steps inside. T. J. returns the gesture and laughs. Although she’ll probably never hand him a packet of cocaine with the same sort of levity, he’s always liked her mimosas and isn’t about to complain.

“I feel spoiled already. Tell you what, I’ll trade you the glass for this.” 

T. J. trades the wrapped package he’d been balancing on the crook of his arm and is mindful about counting to five before taking a sip from the flute. That’s not so hard to do now, he only has to pay attention to something else for a moment and put the drink out of his mind; (his therapist calls this exercise cancelling ‘the pull,’ which works because it’s vaguely judgmental, but only in a productive way).

It’s easy for T. J. to take a moment, admire how the glass he is holding gleams like it’s only been recently unwrapped and not long removed from a storefront display. He’s come to appreciate Anne’s penchant for cleanliness and the exacting way that she flits about hers and Douglas’s three-bed condo, most of it taken over by an open plan lounge and kitchen that is obnoxiously decadent and elegantly minimalist. He’d seen the pictures in a magazine feature a few days before he actually saw it in person. 

(Anne admits to T. J. that the plans for this long-awaited redesign had been decided one night after she and Douglas had eaten Chinese, and after worrying about the bruise on Dougie’s temple after the kid inexplicably sailed off the couch headfirst. The most important decisions had been unilaterally made after Douglas fell asleep over some color swatches.) 

“To be fair,” T. J. takes a sip of his mimosa. “You’ve always had better taste. And Doug is probably wearing the same tie for all of his public appearances what with you here, still holding down the fort.” 

“I put post-its on all of his socks and ties. Although they are doing the flyover states this time round so who’s to say anyone will notice?” Anne’s mouth quirks. “...Too much?” 

T. J. shrugs, “Nah, he probably needs it. Not to mention Bobby Ramsay has got the personality of a dry wall. Hammond 2020 is in the house.” Ramsay is the one actually running for president, but the guy needs serious help and a more coherent immigration policy. (Not that T. J. is supposed to know that.) 

T. J. is better now. Had he not been better, he might have thought Anne controlling or Douglas intently suicidal for continuing on in politics or maybe something else even worse. But he is better now, and he likes it. T. J. likes that Douglas is doing something that works for him, and that Anne understands Douglas’s ambitions and works around them. But she never loses sight of how _unusual_ her husband's vocation is, and she’s still normal enough that she’ll feed T. J. a mimosa even at five on a Wednesday. This is a lady who isn't afraid of bucking trends and she is going places. 

Anne sometimes Googles herself. It's something she does as a sort of guilty sadomasochistic exercise, usually after more than two mimosas. 

“They still misspell my name all the time,” Anne reports. “But they’ll never misidentify my wardrobe and keep insisting that pink isn’t my color. Priorities, right?” 

“ -- Uncle Teej!” The scramble of little footfalls announce the excited entrance over Anne and Douglas’ five-year-old twins Dougie, who is only about three minutes older than his sister Mae, but the difference is night and day. “Mommy, you should have woken us up.” 

“Mommy wanted a few minutes with Uncle T. J. for grown-up things,” Anne says fairly with a little wink and a nod towards T. J.’s mimosa. “It’s very boring.” 

“I don’t want to be boring,” Mae says, her brown eyes very wide. 

“Don’t be bored,” T. J. says. “Have this! But I only brought one so you guys have to share.” 

“We’ll share!”

As the twins tear enthusiastically into the packaging, Anne glances over at T. J. again, “The next time Doug and I want the twins to share, we’re so roping you into it.” 

“I know, I’m some sort of toddler savant,” T. J. laughs. 

“It’s a...camel thing?” Dougie is frowning at the box. 

“A chameleon,” T. J. says. “It’s kind of a lizard thing. It glows in the dark and changes color, too. You control it with a remote” And then, before he can register Anne’s disapproval, he adds, “But it’s a very sensitive chameleon. It doesn’t like being chased around the house.” 

Anne laughs, “Like that’ll work.” 

T. J. shrugs, “It might.” 

“It looks cute,” she peers at it a little closer, “It’ll probably become Douglas’ favorite thing if he’s not too busy tripping over it.” 

“You think? He cried when his pet gecko died.”

“Yeah, I know about that,” Anne moves past T. J. to the fridge. “Do you want another? I could use another. You can be my excuse.” 

“Why not?” T. J. hands over his glass and grins, “It’s been a while since I’ve been a bad influence on anybody.” 

 

Later, Douglas Skype calls them from Meridian, Idaho, which is the third largest city in the state and its current pop is about 90,739. It’s also home to Goodwood’s Barbeque Company, whose house sauce is apparently so good Doug appears to have taken a dab with him back to his hotel room. 

“What? Where?” 

“Here,” Anne dabs at a spot on her blouse, “On your tie, hon.” They take the call in the kitchen, leaving plenty of space for the remote controlled chameleon to move around, but at the moment, Dougie and Mae are arguing over names, with a childlike intensity that is nearly political. They’ll probably become Presidents someday, too. Or maybe they’ll slum it in the Senate, at least. 

“I bet you just looked up that stat on Wikipedia,” T. J. says. 

“Don’t knock the Wiki,” Doug says, frowning down at his tie. “That stat saved Ramsay’s ass today.”

“I bet you save Ramsay’s ass lots of times,” T. J. rolls his eyes.

“That sounded vaguely sexual and I’m now uncomfortable. His room is next to mine. His wife's there. Oh, God, now I'm imagining them having sex. This is all your fault.” 

“Oh, shut up, Doug.” 

T. J. is forcing himself to focus, to cancel the pull before he drinks more of his mimosa. Anne might not mention anything, but she isn’t Douglas and Douglas has his fingers in everything and is pretty much cancelling the pull all the time. Except for that once, but they don’t talk about that. Douglas’ hotel room is very wood-focused and boasts what looks like a high ceiling. Despite the high caliber of the room, Douglas looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Probably something else they shouldn’t talk about because campaigning is no joke. T. J.’s therapist would call it “normalizing problematic behavior.” 

“Also, don’t get mad at me, Annie, but by the time we get back, I’ll probably have gained a million pounds,” Doug says. He pinches his middle for effect, “It’s all these hot dogs.”

“I’ll get Dougie and Mae to use you as a trampoline,” Anne makes a face. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” Douglas pulls a face to mirror his wife's, just about playing at tragedy.

If Doug helps Ramsay win the presidency, T. J. thinks, it’s probably not going to be that much of a change. Anne will pack up the twins, sell the condo, and move them practically down the street to No. 1 Observatory Circle, where the Vice President lives. She’ll probably redecorate there, too. 

“Anyway hon, get some rest, okay? Love you.” 

“I love you too,” T. J. and Douglas manage to say at the same time, and they all laugh. 

Anne clicks off the call and tosses her phone down on the counter, “He looks tired, doesn’t he?”

“A bit,” T. J. hedges. “I don’t know how he does it. I always hated doing campaign trips. But Douglas loved them. Or seem to, you know.” 

“Only some of them,” Anne smiles a bit sideways and reaches to put both of their now empty glasses into the dishwasher.

“You’d know better than I do, but I want you to be...you know, okay.” 

“I’m eating regularly,” Anne shrugs. “I am. Okay. Speaking of, do you want to stay for dinner? I made lasagne.” 

T. J. checks his watch, “I can’t. I actually have a thing.” 

“A date?” She perks up. 

“...A meeting,” T. J. says, and it doesn't hang too awkwardly in the conversation like it used to. “It gets a bit samey, you know, when you’ve been so long, but...I know it’s good for me.” 

He tells himself that he’ll give more details if she asks. It’s not a bad thing, after all, and T. J. doesn’t have that many secrets from Anne. But she just smiles and pulls him in for a hug, steps away, “Douglas will be back next Wednesday. Can you stay for dinner then? We’d love to have you.” 

“Sure,” T. J. grins. “I’d like that.”


End file.
